


It Was The Bath Towel That Broke Him

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is a Being of Comfort and Love, Basically 1500 words of schmoop, Crowley breaks down, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode tag E06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of their Lives, Fluff, M/M, That Bench Scene #1000.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 02:05:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19687195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: ‘I made the archangel Michael miracle me a towel!’The gleeful face of the angel and his self-satisfied snigger as he says it, as if he’s the naughtiest boy in school for stealing the teacher’s apple, are what does it: Crowley throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs until he isn’t laughing anymore.





	It Was The Bath Towel That Broke Him

‘I made the archangel Michael miracle me a towel!’

The gleeful face of the angel and his self-satisfied snigger as he says it, as if he’s the naughtiest boy in school for stealing the teacher’s apple, are what does it. Crowley throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs until he isn’t laughing anymore. He bends double, wheezing and gasping for air he doesn’t need as tears, big and wet and salt start streaming down his cheeks. His entire body shudders and for a moment he fears his wings might come out right then and there, in the middle of St. James’ Park, but then that thought is lost in the sea of utter terror that finally breaks through his crumbling dam of Keep it Cool.

That thought is lost. _He_ is lost and St James’ Park, the bench they’re sitting on, the entire blasted world around him falls away as the entirety of the past week, the worst week of his entire existence, worse even than that one week he spent in Northern France in 1916 during a very poorly timed Assignment from Downstairs[1] comes out in a mass of snot and tears and broken gasps. Half-formed words, bits of sentences even, whimpers in a language no human could ever understand, coming up through a throat filled with shards of glass, splintering in his mouth as he breaks, breaks, breaks completely until there is nothing left but silence.

And one voice.

 _The_ one voice.

‘… and only three weeks ago, at least I think it must be three weeks ago because it was right before all this unpleasantness started, so, let’s see, yes, Thursday. Thursday three weeks ago _easy dearest, easy, it’s alright,_ I found this _wonderful_ little pizzeria just off Leicester Square. Now, I know what you are going to say, _ssssshhhhh my darling, ssssshhhh,_ anything in a three block radius of Leicester Square _must_ be a tourist trap and usually, I would say you’re quite right but this Vincenzo fellow, he really knows his business _alright, my dear one, alright, I’m here, still here,_ and I simply _must_ take you there so you can taste his pizza melanzane for yourself. Are you coming back to me yet, dear?’

The voice washes over him, the words meaningless but the rhythm and tone as familiar as his own. Crowley stills, barely breathing as the feeling of being adrift subsides and the world comes back. A world of white and beige that smells of incense and vanilla and he realizes, very slowly and then all at once, that he has planted himself face-first into Aziraphale’s wings. He is surrounded, completely, by angel because not only is Aziraphale shielding him inside his wings, huge and shining pearly white and pink in the late afternoon sun, but he’s also got Crowley wrapped up in his arms, holding him tight enough to crack a rib.

‘I believe you are,’ comes the voice again, with an unmistakable note of relief. And then: ‘ _No_ ,’ as Crowley makes a very poor attempt to wriggle himself free. ‘None of that, dear. None of that, take your time. I’ve got you.’

Crowley sinks back, eyes closed, into soft down and scratchy wool that are suffused with just enough holiness to tingle against his skin. He breathes in, deeply, then breathes out just as slowly: not because he needs to, but because breathing gives him something to focus on as he crawls his way back completely.

‘I am so sorry, dear one,’ comes Aziraphale’s voice again. It sounds less calmly now, oddly thick even and Crowley feels the gentlest of tremors go through the angel’s body as he continues: ‘It really does seem to me that you have gotten the short end of the stick during all of this, haven’t you?’

That does not sound right. At least not to Crowley, who frowns and points out: ‘You’re the one who got discorporated.’

Or at least, that’s what he is going for. What comes out is something along the lines of: ‘Yomaoifdjacorated.’

‘Ah. Yes.’

Aziraphale sighs, shoulders slumping. Crowley sits up, still wobbly and careful not to move out of the protective shelter of the wings. If that means he can’t fully get away from Aziraphale’s embrace, then that’s just coincidence. Nothing more.

The angel’s eyes are blue and shining with a bottomless grief as he looks at Crowley. ‘Dear one,’ he says softly and now Crowley finally notices the pet name for the first time, and it enters his still rather fragile mental state like the proverbial wrecking ball. His hand closes around the angel’s arm like a vice as he swallows heavily against the new bubble of hysteria that threatens to break through the surface.

‘Dear one,’ Aziraphale says again softly, giving Crowley a sad and broken little smile as he covers the demon’s hand with his own. ‘I would rather get myself discorporated a hundred times over, than set foot in your apartment and see nothing but your empty jacket and puddle of holy water on the floor.’

‘Oh,’ is all Crowley manages. And then: ‘ _oh.’_

The shards of glass are back in his throat, breathing is getting harder and harder to focus on and the world is fast becoming a blur of white and beige again. But Aziraphale continues, with the dogged stubbornness that is both entirely unbecoming of an angel and the one thing that both infuriates Crowley and made him fall for the angel in the first place.

‘And you had to be kidnapped back to Heaven. And I know you once told me that you thought Heaven was mostly boring and nothing else, but I still cannot imagine that was pleasant for you.’

Crowley almost starts to laugh again. ‘You went to _Hell,_ angel.’

‘I know.’ Aziraphale swallows. ‘But… well. You do know what you’re in for when you go Downstairs, don’t you? Hell is… Hell is Hell. And it was unpleasant. But sending a demon back to Heaven…’

He falls quiet. He doesn’t look at Crowley, who is outright gaping at him before he shuts his mouth with an audible click.

‘I don’t miss it, angel,’ he says gently. ‘At all. Did I tell you that as well? Because I don’t. Not at all.’

‘Possibly,’ Aziraphale says, still looking at his lap. ‘But. Still.’

Crowley nods, mouth quirking upwards. He knows precisely what the angel is getting at and loves him even more for it, even though it is so wildly off the mark as to _why_ his trip Upstairs was Hell by any other name that he wants to scream.

In the silence that follows, a bird starts to sing. It’s quite a loud bird and Crowley vaguely wonders how it’s making itself heard over the rumble of traffic but then Aziraphale looks up, eyes red-rimmed but mercifully dry. ‘Well then,’ he says in an awfully discordant sounding attempt at chipperness. ‘How about the Ritz, my dear? I do think there _is_ cause for celebration, after all.’

There is. There is a lot to celebrate and the continuous existence of the world at large is only the start of it. But the sight of Aziraphale, pale-faced, hair unkempt, wings drooping despite his best efforts and, not in the least, the large wet stain on his shoulder, makes Crowley shake his head as his human heart does something in his chest that he didn’t know hearts could do.

‘Let’s skip the Ritz,’ he says, standing up and reaching out to help Aziraphale stand up from the bench, only to pull the angel into an embrace of his own because letting go? Still not an option.

Aziraphale makes a surprised noise but goes willingly, burying his face all too easily into Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley slides his hand into the angel’s feathery soft hair and keeps him there, inhaling the scent of warmth and love and home for just a moment longer. Aziraphale’s arms snake around his waist, holding on tight as they both stand there, doing nothing but existing in each other’s presence and marveling in that simple fact.

‘Let’s go home,’ Crowley finally murmurs, lips brushing against Aziraphale’s temple in an almost-kiss. ‘We can do the Ritz tomorrow.’

Aziraphale nods and steps back, blinking and surreptitiously wiping his eyes. But then he gives Crowley a smile, a full bright and beaming smile that never fails to make Crowley feel warm all over. Which kind of says something, him being the cold-blooded snake that he is.

‘Tomorrow,’ he says and, taking Crowley’s hand and lacing their fingers together tight, leads them both out of the park.

Overhead, the unidentified bird sang on.

[1] Nothing he or Hell was capable of could ever, _ever_ surpass that kind of horror and he had let Beelzebub know that in no uncertain terms when he got back. It was one of the only times he had actively yelled at his superiors and afterwards, he seriously considered heading towards the nearest church and taking a dive into the font of Holy Water because if humans could do _that_ to each other, then whatever was the use for _him_ , or Hell for that matter?

But that’s another story entirely.


End file.
